Calling is for Suckers

Anyone who says that technology hasn't made things better is fucking dreaming. I mean, just think about what your sleek, new space-age cell phone can do for your love life alone. Especially when compared to the "old days," when suckers were limited to just calling people for dates. Went something like this:

Girl: Hello?

Guy: Oh, hi, er... we met last night at the Beacon Hill Pub. Er...

Girl: Okay.

Guy: And, er... ack. [Hangs up phone, instantly dies of embarassment.]

Today, we're an on-the-go society. No time for social niceties or idiotic diversions like, y'know, asking someone on a date. In the new, wireless world, here's how it breaks down:

1. Girl and guy meet at local saloon. Exchange numbers.

2. Two days later, girl gets looped on Jaegermeister and sends pic of herself in thong to guy's phone.

3. Guy masturbates to photo to the point of self-immolation; calls girl.

4. The hook-up, as they say, is on. Story inspires song on next Nelly album.

Sure, Alexander Graham Bell was some pretty hot shit with his coconuts and wires. But it took real twenty-first century know-how to empower us to receive soft core porn on demand.

And though I've come close many a time, one of the reasons I can't bring myself to send suggestive photos via the handy Moto Razr is the crippling fear that I'd hit a wrong button and simultaneously send pics of the ol' steak and onions to my grandmother, Aunt Flo and my brother-in-law the cop.